


Come find me now, we'll hide out (we'll speak in our secret tongues)

by Gorgeousgreymatter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Derek Hale Takes Care of Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Derek Hale to the Rescue, Derek shifted after the hale fire and never turned back, Eventual Smut, Feral Derek Hale, Hermit Derek Hale, M/M, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski Takes Care Of Derek Hale, Teen Wolf AU, Wolf Derek Hale, Wolf Instincts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:06:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28910559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorgeousgreymatter/pseuds/Gorgeousgreymatter
Summary: It’s not often these days that his wolf and human instincts are at odds -- not when they’ve been living seamlessly in sync for so long now.But the wolfish part of him is looking at that boy, pale and too-thin, wearing that ridiculous red sweatshirt that, for one thing, wasn't nearly protection enough in this weather, and for another, might as well be a flashing, neon sign that says chase me, and all it appears to see is want.Or: Stiles's post-graduation road trip goes terribly wrong, and Derek has to save the idiot human from freezing to death.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 60
Kudos: 331





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> WHY AM I DOING THIS TO MYSELF AGAIN. 
> 
> I wanted feral, mountain man Derek, okay? So, I just decided to do it myself. Because I'm a masochist that way.
> 
> Anticipating three or four chapters total, and a rating change to Explicit. 
> 
> Enjoy and thanks for reading c:

Come find me now, we’ll hide out (we’ll speak in our secret tongues)

  
  


_This is why people don’t listen to their GPS,_ Stiles thinks. Because apparently when you do that, you end up in the middle of fucking nowhere with no actual road signs, or mile markers, or hell, any recognizable landmarks at all. Which is fine, or would be fine, Stiles thinks, if it wasn’t turning into a fucking snowpocalypse outside. 

He wasn’t an idiot. He’d checked the weather, okay? He knew it rained a lot in Oregon. He’d expected that -- hence the raincoat he’d shoved into his duffel-bag when he’d packed for this road trip. But he hadn’t packed snow gear, or snow chains, because he lives in California, okay? 

But then again, Stiles should have expected something bad to happen. It’s not like his luck was all that great, especially lately. He tries not to think about it much, but the pang in his chest is impossible to ignore. His mother hadn’t made it to his graduation. She’d promised, of course, but Stiles had never really expected her to. It had been a silly promise anyway, a hopeful one made on one of her good days that, at the time, were already becoming fewer and far between. 

Then fall came and went, and so did most of winter. By December, she hadn’t even recognized him anymore, so the idea of June, of holding out for sunshine and summer, seemed unfathomable, nothing more than a pipe dream. It wasn’t supposed to a surprise when she died, considering he and his dad had been watching her slowly slip away for months and months, and yet when it finally did happen, it was like a sucker punch to the face, a foot straight to his gut. Like someone had reached in and shattered his fragile, glass insides like breaking a mirror.

And things that had always made sense to him -- eating, sleeping, _god, even breathing --_ were hard enough. The idea of just waking up and going to school, seeing his friends, playing (okay, sitting on the bench, mostly) lacrosse like everything was fine and normal seemed as foreign and strange to him as trying to have a conversation in a language he didn’t know. So he’d cashed in his overabundance of credits, metaphorically, and graduated early. 

His father had asked him what he planned on doing, and Stiles hadn’t really had an answer. That Berkeley acceptance letter had gotten shoved in his desk drawer along with all the other stuff he hadn’t wanted to think about. 

The road trip had been an impulse, one born from too many nights spent staring up at his ceiling remembering all the things he tried his hardest not to. The way his mother had sung him to sleep every night as a kid (even though her singing voice admittedly left a lot to be desired, he thinks fondly). The way she smiled, big, all teeth, in a way that always made her eyes disappear. The silver-bell tinkling sound of her laughter. Too many memories of all those childhood trips spent in the backseat of his mother’s jeep (his now, he thinks ruefully), too hot and sweaty, because half the time the airconditioning didn’t work, as they stopped at every single roadside attraction they came across. He never quite understood why, but his mother had always loved that crap. Show her a sign for the biggest ball of twine, life-size dinosaur statues, giant frying pans, and she’d take the nearest exit. Who needed Paris or Milan, or hell, even Disneyland, when you could visit the world’s largest yo-yo museum?

So that’s what he’d decided to do. He’d expected his father to balk over an unsupervised road trip, but oddly enough, he’d seemed to understand the need for it (and Stiles was eighteen, now, he’d said, sighing. Not like he could stop him anyway). To get away, to get out of the house where that suffocating gloom had settled over everything like a layer of dust, Stiles’s father included. Surely he hadn’t expected Stiles not to notice the man could hardly stand to be in the same room with him for the last three months.

Stiles doesn’t even have to ask why, because he knows. It’s staring straight at him in the mirror every morning. He knows exactly who he looks like. 

So one day, Stiles just does it. Gets in his car and leaves Beacon Hills and everyone else behind. Not forever, he thinks, eyeing the _Now Leaving Beacon Hills_ sign growing smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror. Just for now. There hadn’t been a firm plan, just maps mostly. The GPS his father insisted he take. Mostly, it was roadside motels in between stops at various oddities -- the Cabazon dinosaurs, the world’s largest lemon, the international banana museum. To be honest, none of them felt all that spectacular or interesting, but there was something soothing about it. Stiles almost felt like at every place he stopped, he was leaving behind little pieces of his sadness, tiny pebbles of grief that had been stuffed in his pockets, weighing him down.

He wasn’t really any less sad, but he did, somehow, feel lighter. A tiny, infinitesimal fraction more hopeful. 

At least until now, because he’s not used to driving in snow, obviously. And it was really coming down, so thick that even with the windshield wipers on, it was like driving with his eyes closed. Not like the jeep performed all that well in ideal weather conditions, so frankly, he’s less surprised and more defeated when he hears the engine grind and stutter to an inevitable halt.

_Fuck me,_ he thinks, letting his forehead hit the steering wheel with a resounding thud. 

He allows himself a few minutes to wallow before switching his brain into problem-solving mode. Like always, there’s a toolbox in the trunk with tools he sort of knows how to use, albeit with a few nontraditional items (his mother had relied heavily on duct tape, much to his father’s continued horror). So, he supposes that’s his first course of action, he thinks, taking the time to bundle up as best he can, layering on another sweatshirt and his raincoat.

It doesn’t really help much with the cold, because he’s pretty much shivering as soon as he gets out, but his options were pretty limited in that regard anyway. Because if he’s not able to fix it, he can either try not to freeze to death in his car with no heat, or retrace his path back to the nearest town, which, after he thinks for a minute, is probably only three or four miles away. His cellphone would normally be helpful, but a quick glance shows he has absolutely no service, which honestly doesn’t shock him in the slightest. Either way, if he can’t get the jeep started, he’s going to end up hoofing it. To find help, or shelter, or fucking cell phone service. So, no matter how he slices it, that’s going to suck major dick.

  
  


Surprise, surprise (not), he thinks, because it turns out, he _can’t_ fucking fix it. Because that would be way too easy, and why should the universe not continue to bone him, anyway? Why the hell not?

_Fuck._

With a resolute sigh, Stiles starts to walk. 

…

_Run, run, faster, faster._ Those are the only thoughts that guide him as he flies through the trees, his paws blurred as he races through the forest. Derek’s been steadily tracking this deer for miles now, and he knows it's starting to tire, can hear the frantic _thump thump thump_ of its heart, taste the sour tang of adrenaline on the back of his tongue when he scents the air.

He weaves in between the pines, jumping over fallen trees, logs, boulders, with practiced ease. As he gets closer and closer, he can hear the animal’s ragged, desperate breathing, hear its hooves pounding rapidly against the earth. It happens quickly. It always does. A stumble, one simple mistake, and Derek doesn’t hesitate. He overtakes it, sinks his teeth into the deer’s flank, snarling as he feels hot blood spill into his mouth. The deer screams and wails, kicks out blindly with its feet, but it’s already over. No reason to draw it out, so he wrestles it to the ground, locks his jaws around the thing’s throat, and tears through paper-thin flesh. And there, on the forest floor, his muzzle drenched and dripping with the blood of a fresh kill, he fills his belly, that ceaseless, gnawing hunger finally sated. At least for now.

It was easy like this. Simple. When he was hungry, he ate. When he was tired, he slept. Ran when he needed to, rested when he didn’t. Perhaps that was why he’d stayed like this, lived for so long now as the wolf. Time didn’t pass the same way as when he was human. It wasn’t minutes or hours or the impossibly long stretch of days. It was merely seasons that passed in an endless, repeating cycle. The cold, damp, dead of winter, the triumphant rebirth of a new spring. 

Derek’s been wearing the skin of the wolf for so many winters now, he forgets sometimes what being human felt like. Because it mostly feels like a dream now, that night of the fire when he’d seen his home burn to the ground, felt the life leave each member of his family as they suffocated from the smoke and burned from the flames licking their skin, each tie getting severed so agonizingly slow that it felt like being butchered from the inside out. 

He can’t remember why now (instinct probably), but he’d turned around and ran. Ran fast and ran far, and by the time he was deep into the preserve, it had happened. The power had come all at once, made his blood feel like it was scorching his veins. _It hurt._ That was his only thought when the shift had come, when he’d felt his bones crack and rearrange themselves underneath his skin. He'd felt the heat of fire blazing behind his eyes, everything flaring white and red and then finally to black as he fell fully under. 

When he'd opened his eyes again, he knew what had happened. He was the last one alive, so his mother’s power had finally passed on to him.

He would have to be his own alpha now. 

  
  


Derek has been able to smell it since this morning, the humidity filling the moist air with terpenes from the pines, the strange way every other scent fell away as everything around him started to freeze. So he’s not shocked to see the snow starting to fall, blanketing the earth, quieting the forest around him. 

He hardly feels it, the chill of the flakes hitting him through the thick, coarse fur of his coat. The snow that falls on him doesn’t even melt. He could sleep out here in the open if he wanted to, but he supposes there’s still some human instinct buried deep down that drives him to find some shelter from the oncoming storm. He knows where he’s going.

About six months ago, when the dog days of summer had hit and Derek had gone searching for relief from the oppressive heat, he’d somehow wandered his way onto a small property in a part of the forest he hadn’t explored much. A cabin, where he’d smelled something he hadn’t for a long time -- another human. Derek hadn’t been all that eager to investigate further. Humans anywhere around here hardly meant anything good. It usually, for one thing, meant guns. Derek likely wouldn’t die from a bullet wound, but he’d been shot enough times to know he wasn’t anxious to repeat the experience any time soon. 

It was the music that had drawn him in. The lyrical strumming of what he’d thought was a guitar. The woods had its own music, sure, the shrieking caws of the birds overhead, the rustling of leaves, and the creaking of branches swaying in the wind. But there was something about it, the vibrating hum of those plucked strings, that had called to him. Maybe because he hadn’t heard it in so long.

Regardless of the reason, he’d crept his way past the treeline, hiding in the shadows cast by the coming sunset, and seen the source: a woman, grey-haired and sallow-skinned, sitting on the front porch of the little house with a battered-looking guitar clutched in her gnarled hands. Night after night he would find his way back, watch and listen, almost as if he was compelled, like he couldn’t help it. Sometimes, after darkness fell and the moon came up, he could swear he could feel her looking at him. 

If she knew he was there, she never said anything. Never tried to approach him. Then fall passed by, and winter came. It was a few weeks after the first frost when Derek had begun to smell it on her -- _death._ Living as the wolf, death had ceased to surprise him, meant very little. But something about watching the old woman deteriorate, become frailer with each passing day, it was like watching a car crash. For some reason, he couldn’t find it in himself to look away. 

On the night she’d passed, the moon had been full, the sky dark and clear, everything swathed in moonlight. It had been quiet, too, save for those rattling, gasping breaths of a dying woman. She’d sat on that porch like it was any other night, and Derek could see she didn’t have that same, desperate look in her eyes that dying animals did. She’d merely seemed calm. Resigned to her fate. 

So, even though there’d been no music that night, Derek had kept vigil anyway, and when he’d heard the old woman’s heartbeat start to falter, grow slower, slower, slower, something compelled him to come out of the shadows.

To her credit, the woman hadn’t seemed surprised to see him either, so his suspicions that she’d always noticed him were obviously true.

_“I was wondering if you’d show up,”_ she’d croaked, offering him a weak smile.

Derek had merely whined, paced restlessly back and forth in front of her.

_“I came out here to die alone to begin with,”_ she’d muttered, and Derek had wondered why she even bothered to try and speak. Perhaps she hadn’t cared about trying to preserve the last of her energy. No point really, he’d guessed. _“But I must admit, I am grateful not to be, at the end.”_

Derek hadn’t shifted back since that night of the fire. Hadn’t even tried. Wasn’t even sure he could, to be honest. And yet, there was something in that moment that he could not name that had compelled him to do it. 

It had hurt much like the first time, letting it overtake him, that same rippling up and down his spine, the shuddering creak of his bones shifting back into place, raising himself up on two legs in front of her.

He hadn’t expected much. Screaming, probably as most humans did when they encountered something they didn’t understand. But she’d merely smiled again and shook her head. _“I knew there was something different about you, wolf.”_

Derek had cocked his head, flashed his eyes at her, mostly in confusion. Speaking likely wasn’t going to happen. It had been so long, he wasn’t even sure his voice would work anymore, let alone what it would sound like. 

So instead, he’d crept forward on unsteady legs, reached out with a hand he’d hardly even recognized, and placed it gently against her wrist. Then they’d both watched, the woman misty-eyed, as he’d drawn the pain like a poison out of her and into him, his veins turning black, flexing and shuddering with effort. It had hurt. It always did, doing that. But it had passed, too, same as it always did.

It wasn’t long after that when she’d looked at him curiously one last time. Murmured under her breath, _“Now, isn’t that something?”_

And then, just like that, she’d gone.

What had compelled him to bother burying her, Derek couldn’t say. Perhaps it had been her bravery in the face of death that he’d respected. Perhaps he’d felt sorry for her. Maybe, he’d done it to see if he even could care about a thing like that anymore, dignity in death. Animals didn’t. 

Perhaps he’d been making sure he was still human after all. 

After it was finished, he’d been curious enough to go into the cabin and see just how she’d been living. It had been clean and dry inside, just two small rooms. In the first room, a fireplace, a wood stove with a hot water heater, a small bed. A copper tub. The second room had been a small bathroom. The only thing that had truly captivated him was the mirror, mostly because he’d certainly not recognized what was staring back at him when he’d looked in it.

He’d been sixteen when his family had burned, but the face staring back at him had been a grown man’s, with a full beard, his dark hair longer than he’d ever kept it, and hanging irritatingly down in front of his eyes. At least, he’d thought, those were the same green they’d always been. There had at least been something comforting in that. 

It had kind of creeped him out, to be honest, so after that, he’d turned tail (literally) and ran, having no desire at all to stay human. 

  
  


And he’d had no desire to go back there until now. Like before, some strange instinct he doesn’t understand propels him forward. There had been a service road leading to the cabin, so it hadn’t been hard to follow the same path again. Mindlessly, he pads along, unperturbed by the flakes falling on him, though he occasionally stops to shake the snow built up in his coat, annoyed by the ever-increasing weight of it.

It’s nice like this, he thinks. When the forest feels deserted. Empty. So, he’s not expecting to see another living soul, which is why when he picks up a scent, it floors him for a moment. He pauses, raises his nose to the air and tastes it.

_Human._ Like the old woman, only not at all, he thinks. Derek had been relatively indifferent toward her scent because it hadn’t been good or bad necessarily. Just that: human.

This scent though, this scent was different, because this one was _mouthwatering._

He’s off and running through the trees before he knows what’s happening.

...

_“Go see the giant tree,”_ Stiles mutters angrily to himself, trudging sullenly through the snow, _“it’ll be fun.”_ You know where they also have trees? California. Where there was also the sun, glorious sun. And warmth. But no, he had to be all daring and adventurous and cross state lines into fucking Narnia. 

And now he was going to freeze to death and die a sad, pathetic, virgin icicle. Although, he had water and snacks in the emergency backpack his father had insisted he take. So, at least when Stiles dies of hypothermia he’ll be well-hydrated and not-starving. 

“If I make it out of this alive, that better be the best, most magical fucking tree I’ve ever seen in my life.”

He’s probably being a little dramatic, Stiles knows that, but he also feels like he’s earned it, and it’s not like there’s anyone around to witness his tantrum.

Or at least that’s what he thought. Until he sees the _giant fucking black wolf_ in the middle of the road, staring at him.

It’s fine, Stiles’s anxious mind assures him. It’s probably not real, because everything’s covered in snow and people saw all kinds of weird shit during storms. Mirages, tricks of the light. Weren’t wolves endangered? He tries to calculate, off-the-cuff, the actual percent chance of seeing one in this part of the Northwest, but his heart is beating too fast and his brain has gone all fuzzy like a broken tv. 

So he just shuts his eyes, which in retrospect is _stupid as hell,_ but he needs to recalibrate at least a little before he passes out from lack of oxygen. Maybe when he opens them, the wolf won’t be there.

Of course, that’s not what happens, because when he opens his eyes, the wolf is still right fucking there, and also somehow closer?

_“Jesus christ,”_ he yelps, because the wolf is just _staring_ at him. Not in a hungry way (well, he fucking hopes it’s not in a hungry way), with these strange, red eyes. 

He’s pretty sure wolves don’t normally have red eyes. Red eyes that _glow._ Maybe it was just rabid. Which, when he thinks about it, is also somehow worse. 

And now that he’s been standing still for a while, he’s feeling colder than ever.

“I won’t taste good,” he blurts through clenched, chattering teeth. Why he’s trying to talk his way out of this, reason with a wild animal, god only knows. But what else is he supposed to do? Stiles might have flunked out of Boy Scouts (okay, he was banned, let’s call a spade a spade), but he’s not an idiot. Running from a predator is like the worst thing he could do. Might as well wear a fucking sign on his forehead saying _eat me._ “I’m skin and bones. An aperitif at best.”

The wolf lets out this sound that Stiles could swear is actually a sigh. And if he didn’t know better, he swears the thing actually rolls its eyes at him.

For reasons he can’t possibly explain, Stiles is pretty sure he feels kind of offended.

…

Derek follows the scent blindly until he comes across a car, where the sugary sweetness is slightly polluted by the acrid bite of burning oil and gasoline. There was no heartbeat that he could hear, and he could see a trail of footprints leading away from the obviously broken metal box.

Tracking it was easy. Humans were stupid that way, always leaving traces behind. Clumsy and loud. Thoughtless to everything else around them. Perhaps that’s why it’s so easy for him to sneak up on the boy. Because that’s what it turns out to be, that deliciously alluring scent, a human boy. 

It’s not often these days that his wolf and human instincts are at odds -- not when they’ve been living seamlessly in sync for so long now.

But the wolfish part of him is looking at that boy, pale and too-thin, wearing that ridiculous red sweatshirt that, for one thing, wasn't nearly protection enough in this weather, and for another, might as well be a flashing, neon sign that says _chase me,_ and all it appears to see is _want._

We don’t want him, Derek thinks vehemently. Look at him. He’s scrawny.

_He’s pretty. He smells good. We want him. He’ll want us. We can take care of him._

Well, they agree on that part at least, the boy obviously needs taking care of. He’s an idiot. He has to be, Derek thinks, because why else would he be trying to walk like this, alone and obviously unprepared, in a freaking snowstorm. 

_Help him._

No. 

_He’ll freeze to death without us. Look at him, the wolf growls, he needs us._

We don’t need anyone. Survival of the fittest, Derek thinks dryly. 

_We want him, that annoying voice insists again. Smell him and tell us you don’t._

Ugh, that was annoyingly true. Up close, it’s even more apparent, just how god damn _delectable_ he smells. And not in a for-eating way. In a different way, a way Derek wasn’t even sure he was capable of even noticing, let alone feeling anymore. 

Derek huffs. Fine. 

_Good. Better start now, because we think he’s about to faint._

Of course he is, Derek thinks, rolling his eyes. Of course he is.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, but it is what it is.
> 
> Thank you for reading and supporting c:

II.

“Well, if you’re planning on eating me, can you just get it over with?” Stiles grumbles, hugging himself and shivering violently. “Because if my choices are getting eaten right now, or slowly freeze to death, I’ll admittedly have to go with the _get eaten_ option.” 

Stiles isn’t going to pass out. He’s not, okay? Yes, he maybe, might be feeling a little bit shaky at the knees, but he doesn’t think he can be blamed for that. Not when there’s a wild animal not five feet away from him, just _staring,_ which is really starting to creep him out. Mostly because the wolf’s not really doing anything but what feels like silently judging him. Like, a lot.

“I know,” Stiles says, when the wolf simply cocks its head at him, “I’m as shocked as you are by this development.” 

The wolf huffs and rolls its eyes again. And seriously, are wolves supposed to be able to do that?

And then the thing finally starts moving toward him, and yeah, okay, Stiles might have sort of provoked it with the whole _let’s hurry up and eat me thing,_ but that doesn’t stop him from yelping and covering his eyes. Because running isn’t an option unless he wants to go ahead and invite that wolf to literally play with its food, so to speak, but if Stiles is going to actually get eaten today he’s, at the very least, not going to watch. 

He’s expecting some claws and teeth, maybe some growling and snarling, but that’s not what he feels or hears. That’s not what happens. Because the wolf’s teeth don’t close around any flesh. Instead, when Stiles opens his eyes warily, he sees that the thing has the sleeve of his hoodie held gingerly in its mouth, tugging on it insistently like it's trying to drag him somewhere.

“Hey, leave me alone! Can’t you go find some bunnies to terrorize or something?” Stiles hisses, yanking back on his sleeve (which is stupid, he realizes this, but he’s not exactly thinking clearly at the moment okay?). The wolf does finally growl at him, and Stiles is like fully expecting to get his hand bitten off, but that’s not what happens either. Instead, the animal huffs again like Stiles’s very existence is annoying him (which, rude, but that’s beside the point), and seems to decide carefully pulling him along isn’t the answer. Apparently, shoving Stiles in the back is.

It’s not a gentle shove, either, and Stiles pretty much stumbles and faceplants into the snow almost immediately. And like before, even though it makes absolutely no sense, Stiles thinks, blinking up stupidly at the gray sky and wincing as he feels icy snow start to soak through his thin jacket, he’s pretty sure that fucking wolf is _laughing_ at him. 

…

We might as well leave him here, Derek thinks grumpily. He can’t even walk right.

_We pushed him._

Well, if he wasn’t so shrimpy, he might’ve been able to stay up on his feet, Derek says. It’s really starting to irritate him, these two feelings warring inside. The one that’s telling him to run, leave this dumb, weak little human behind and take care of himself, same as always, and that one that seems to be growing exponentially with every second he spends next to the kid that’s repeating _mine, mine, mine (ours, the wolf reminds him pointedly)_ like a fucking mantra. 

_Not a kid. He smells ripe._

Not the point, Derek sniffs. And it won’t matter anyway if (or when) he freezes to death. 

_We’re not going to let him freeze to death. We protect what belongs to us._

Except, he doesn’t, Derek insists, sitting back on his haunches. The boy is scrambling to his feet now at least, and Derek might not be used to being around humans anymore, but he certainly knows when he’s being cursed at. 

_He will._

And we’re sure that’s what we want? Him? Derek asks himself in disbelief, even more annoyed by the fact that he already knows the answer. 

_Yes._

  
  


The boy is stalking away with uneven steps, still muttering under his breath, which, fine, but he’s walking in the wrong direction. From both town and that metal deathtrap Derek had seen on the side of the road. Seriously, Derek thinks, it’s like the kid is actively trying to die. With another snarl of irritation, the wolf bolts in front of the boy, turns, and bares his teeth. 

Is he going to have to herd this kid like a sheep, for christ sake? 

…

If Stiles were smart, he would have brought something with him to protect himself. That’s what the baseball bat under the front seat was for, wasn’t it? But no, he had to be an idiot and leave the blunt object behind.

Not that it would likely do much good. Because, for one thing, that is like the biggest wolf Stiles has ever seen. Not that he’s seen any outside of wildlife documentaries, but he’s pretty sure wolves weren’t supposed to be practically the same size as a freaking horse. 

Since it doesn’t seem to act like a normal wolf, either, he just decides to go for it. Not run away. Just, you know, walk fast and far. Deliberately. And in one direction.

Or he at least tries to, until the thing bounds in front of him and actually shows its teeth. Its big, sharp, scary, fangy teeth.

“Okay, okay, christ!” Stiles says, throwing up his hands. “Fine. If you insist on leading me somewhere before disemboweling me, let’s get fucking on with it.” 

The wolf snorts and nods its head (no, wolves don’t nod their heads, Stiles reminds himself. It’s probably just shaking the snow off its coat), before trotting past Stiles looking almost entirely too pleased with itself. It even pauses, making a point to shove him slightly forward, brushing its massive shoulder against his hip, though Stiles is quick enough this time that he only wobbles slightly. No falling down.

He does give the thing the finger, but it’s not all that satisfying. 

  
  
  


“I know one of humanity’s distinct failings is anthropomorphizing wild animals such as yourself,” Stiles calls out bitterly, trudging through the snow, the wolf only a few feet ahead, its steps almost infuriatingly light and springy against the ground, “but for a wild animal, you’re kind of a fucking asshole, dude.”

The wolf turns back to look at him, flashing those weird red eyes, and really, it’s starting to feel sort of uncanny at this point -- that the thing appears to actually not only be listening to him, but understanding him. Which is weird for many reasons, only one of which being the fact that he’s having a conversation with an animal (one-sided, but still). 

They’ve been walking for a while now, and the sun is starting to go down. That’s not going to be a problem for the wolf, Stiles thinks, but only one of them can see in the dark and it’s certainly not him. And it’s not like the path the thing’s been basically dragging him down was all that pedestrian-friendly. Stiles is thankful he’s in relatively decent shape (bench-warming wasn’t exactly training, but at least during practice he got to pretend like he was an actual member of the team), because he’s had to clamber over a number of fallen logs and boulders, which the wolf scaled easily, not to mention annoyingly gracefully. 

“Show off,” Stiles mutters when they reach a particularly steep and rocky hill that the wolf clears with one leap. Then it turns around, looking up at Stiles expectantly from the bottom. 

“Yeah, I don’t know if this is going to happen,” Stiles says, crossing his arms and peering skeptically down at the ground. The snow was one thing, sure, but add rocky, snowy, icy, and he thinks, glancing up at the dimming horizon, impending darkness, and the whole situation was far from ideal. 

The wolf huffs and stamps its feet impatiently.

Stiles sticks out his tongue (both childish and pointless, he’s entirely aware) and doesn’t move. That earns him another one of those long, throaty growls that makes the hair on the back of Stiles’s neck stand up. 

“Fine, god, don’t be such a bossywolf, jesus,” Stiles says, thankful the only person he’s actively humiliating himself in front of isn’t a person at all. There’s some comfort in that, he thinks, doing his best to scrabble down the rocky surface without completely biffing it.

With his luck, he should’ve known better. That’s the only thought resounding in his head when the stone he’d been using for footing gives out underneath him and he trips and stumbles all the way down, landing with a loud _oof_ in a tangled mess at the wolf's feet.

…

_We thought the shortcut would make it easier._

Clearly, that worked, Derek thinks, glowering down at the boy still lying flat on his back in front of him. He’s human. He can’t keep up. It was stupid to assume he even could.

The boy is cursing at him again, and Derek is only half-listening. Mostly his attention is on how the boy is struggling to his feet, the way his teeth are violently chattering, so loud it’s hurting Derek’s ears like tiny needles getting shoved in there. Then the boy takes a step, and Derek flinches sympathetically when he hears the boy’s hissing cry of pain, followed by more cursing (these ones are impressively more imaginative, Derek thinks).

The pain rolling off the boy is enough to make Derek’s eyes water, and it doesn’t take much to find the source, padding forward to nose at his foot, smelling the blood bruising around his swollen ankle.

Perfect, Derek thinks, snorting in frustration. 

_We could carry him._

You mean _I_ could carry him. Only one of us has hands, remember? 

_You could carry him, the wolf amends. It’d be faster. Safer._

And would require shifting, which Derek’s not exactly been inclined to do in the last decade, save for that incident a few weeks ago, which he still doesn’t understand. 

Derek had been so wrapped up with this ridiculous inner argument with himself that he’d almost forgotten, for a moment, that the human was still here. Which was honestly impressive, considering how fucking good he smelled to Derek. He was, unfortunately, _very unforgettable._ “Fucking perfect. Just great,” the boy mutters, hugging his knee and growling (rather wolf-like, Derek thinks, oddly proud), “but what should I have expected? Follow the possibly rabid --”

Derek rumbles pointedly, and the boy smirks, though it’s decidedly more bitter than amused. 

“-- fine, probably not rabid, but _definitely moody_ wolf into the fucking forbidden forest, see what’ll happen. Couldn’t be that bad, right? No,” the boy rambles on, shivering. “Of course not. That’s why I’m sitting here with a broken ankle probably, and I’m going to freeze to death like Beacon Hills’s next fucking Chris Mccandless, and you know what,” he adds, gazing pointedly in Derek’s direction, _“I fucking hated that book.”_

But Derek’s not listening. Doesn’t hear a single word of what the kid’s saying other than _Beacon Hills._

He hears his spine start to crack and rearrange before he even feels it start to happen. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDK if people are finding Derek's inner conversations confusing, but he's been a wolf for like almost a decade, so it doesn't seem weird to me that he would have needed someone to talk to, even if it was technically just a different part of himself.
> 
> Maybe it's weird, but it's just how Derek in this story translated himself in my brain. BIG SHRUG.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming along with me on this ride. I can't promise it won't be a mess, but I appreciate the support!
> 
> CW: Brief mention of the "Me Too" movement. Not sure if that's worth throwing up a warning about, but I would rather be cautious than not!

III.

Just like before, fuck,  _ it hurts,  _ and a pained, strangled howl is still making its way out of Derek’s throat when he finally manages to open his eyes again. And, just like before, all Derek can think about as he’s lying there in the snow, curled uncomfortably in the fetal position, is how much it really, truly sucks. 

It’s disorienting. As a werewolf, Derek’s senses have always been heightened, but when he’s fully shifted, it’s like they’re on hyperdrive or something. Losing that so suddenly, it makes wearing his human skin feel like he’s gone blind, deaf, and dumb all at once. 

The weight of flesh is suffocating. 

_ “Holy fucking shit, dude -- you’re --” _

Derek exhales, breathing deep enough that the boy’s sugared scent hits the back of his tongue. Everything comes flooding back over him in a rush of sensation. He doesn’t get to his feet yet, remembering the coltish, unsteady steps he’d taken that night at the cabin, turning instead to the human he’d nearly forgotten. As if that was actually possible, Derek thinks.

_ Human, the wolf prompts?  _ Derek says nothing, offers nothing, because like before, his throat feels dry, locked. Not nearly yet capable of words.

At least the boy isn’t screaming. He is sort of sputtering though, waving his hands wildly around his head like he’s trying to swat away flies or something. 

_ Is he okay? _

Derek cocks his head. I don’t think so. But I think we probably shocked him. It’s like he short-circuited or something, Derek thinks, because the boy’s eyes (pretty eyes, Derek realizes miserably, the color of warm chocolate) are practically bugging out of his head. 

_ “-- you’re --" _

_ Did we break him? _

Possibly.

_ “-- you’re -- you’re hot! And naked!”  _ the kid finally spits out. Then Derek watches his skin, as pale as the snow surrounding them, flush an admittedly alluring shade of pink.  _ “Oh, god, I meant human.” _

Derek blinks again, still dumbstruck, although he’s smirking a little because once again, this boy doesn’t act like any human he’s ever come across before. It’s been a long time since he’s smiled. Feels weird. 

It doesn’t last though, because he can smell the way the boy’s scent is turning, souring with adrenaline and panic. He might not be screaming, but he is quite possibly about to hyperventilate. 

“Oh my god,” the boy starts, “this isn’t real, is it? I’m still in my stupid car, aren’t I? -- I probably have hypothermia right now, and you’re just the weird fantasy my brain is using to process my impending death, which, okay brain,” he gasps, “-- nice, but I can’t believe I’m going to die, and the last experience I’ll ever have besides freezing to death is the International Banana Museum. And I hate bananas!"

Why on earth would you fantasize about me? Derek secretly wants to ask. Derek’s not sure if he’s supposed to be answering these questions anyway (not that he actually would), but he doesn’t think so. Surely there would be more pauses. More actual breathing. 

The boy’s heartbeat is deafening, and he’s shivering so violently that Derek thinks he can hear his bones creaking. 

_ We should probably -- _

Yeah, Derek thinks, I know. I got it. 

With a resigned sigh, Derek shoots a slightly shaky hand out to grab the boy’s impossibly thin wrist, wrapping his fingers around the thrumming pulse point there, and closes his eyes.

“Wait -- what are you --” 

…

Stiles isn’t exactly a skeptic. He’s a nerd, and he’s had many years to come to terms with it. As such, he’s pretty well-read in most fantasy, horror, and science fiction genres. He’s seen The X-Files. He wants to believe and all that jazz, okay? 

But when he sees that wolf fall to the ground, twist and writhe in a way that makes Stiles want to look away so badly (but he can’t, of course) because fuck, it looks painful, all he can do is stare, wide-eyed. All his brain can manage to do is practically blow its circuits trying to come up with a logical, rational reason that his wolf (and when the hell exactly did it become  _ his,  _ he wonders?) had suddenly transformed itself into a very large,  _ very naked,  _ man. 

Obviously, it doesn’t end well. He may have forgotten he was cold, but his body certainly didn’t, because now he’s shivering again, shaking, and he can’t seem to stop. He also, apparently, can’t shut up, either. 

He feels like he’s erroring out. As like, a person.

And because he’s Stiles, and even though he’s starting to see spots, he has, like, eight million different questions. But really, the only one rocketing around in his panic-soaked brain is,  _ what the everliving fuck? _

The wolf, well, man --  _ Wolfman? Jesus Christ -- _ is still just doing that staring thing. In fact, the more Stiles talks, the more he stares, and the more, dare Stiles say, he looks almost  _ amused? _ It’s kind of adorable, actually, which, oh god, Stiles should absolutely not even be thinking about that right now. 

Not when he’s like, actively trying not to faint. And sort of failing at it, he thinks, wobbling slightly.

Wolfman has been eerily still, that same type of stillness Stiles remembers seeing on the predators on tv in those nature documentaries, right before they lunged at a helpless, baby gazelle and tore it apart. Which is why Stiles doesn’t think he can be blamed for flinching the way he does when he feels that hand, impossibly big and impossibly hot, grab him by the wrist and squeeze. Not tightly, but it’s still unsettling.

“Dude, what the hell are you doing?”

Wolfman lets out one of those moody growls again that still manages to sound impressively wolflike, even if the man no longer looks like one.

God, Stiles really must be oxygen-deprived. Has to be, he thinks, because when he looks down, he can see black lines wiggling like snakes up and down Wolfman’s arm. All of a sudden, he feels sort of warm, floaty. A little like being stoned, but somehow different. Better?

Those predators definitely didn’t roll their eyes the same way his Wolfman did. Nice eyes, Stiles thinks dreamily. Emerald green and flecked with gold, not a thing like the crimson shade they were before. That wasn’t bad, but he definitely thinks they’re better like this. 

The last thing Stiles remembers saying is, which even as it's coming out of his mouth, he recognizes how mortifying it truly is:  _ “You have really pretty eyes, you know.”  _

  
  


By the time consciousness returns, before Stiles even opens his eyes, the first thing he notices is that he isn’t cold anymore. For a brief moment, he panics, because that was  _ definitely _ part of hypothermia, right? You get to just sort of drift off, all peaceful and warm. That didn’t sound so bad, in theory.

But then he notices some more stuff, stuff that isn’t so nice. Like the fact that his ankle hurts like a bitch again (which actually kind of makes him feel better about the whole,  _ this might not actually be happening thing),  _ and, and he’s weirdly itchy. 

When Stiles opens his eyes, the reason for the latter becomes excruciatingly obvious. He’s  _ naked _ , as in no clothes, though he’s wrapped very deliberately in a wool blanket. Hence, the itchy, Stiles thinks, grimacing. Scrambling upright, he blinks blearily until his surroundings come into clearer focus.

It’s some kind of cabin. Small, well-lived in, but it looks and smells relatively clean, if not a little musty, too, dimly lit by a lantern hanging from the ceiling and the soft glow of a fire flickering in a wood stove across from the bed (he’d only just realized that’s what he’s been sitting on). 

Wrapping the wool tighter around his shoulders, he tries to sit up and move, but this time, it’s not his ankle that keeps him still. It’s a hand, gripping him by the foot and holding him down so suddenly that it makes Stiles yelp. When he turns to look, he sees those same eyes ( _ pretty eyes, he thinks miserably)  _ of his wolf staring back at him. 

“Holy shit, could you please stop doing  _ that?”  _ Stiles says nervously. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.” 

Wolfman rolls his eyes again (which he seems to do a lot, Stiles notes). Stiles hmmphs and tries to yank his foot out of the man’s grip, but a bolt of pain shoots through it, and he curses. Wolfman growls and Stiles shivers when he sees red bleed into his eyes. He’s not sure if Wolfman can actually speak, but the aggressive furrowing of his eyebrows is pretty clear: 

_ Don’t move.  _

Maybe Stiles should be more scared. No, he definitely should. A normal, sane person would be. But that ship sailed a long time ago. Now that he’s not actively turning into a human popsicle, it’s sort of impossible for his brain to forget the fact that god, Wolfman really is almost disgustingly attractive. And, Stiles realizes, blushing, still naked. And, Stiles’s brain further reminds him, oh so helpfully, so is he.

_ Eep.  _ “Where the hell are my clothes?” Stiles hisses, clutching the blanket protectively. “There is such a thing as consent, you know. Clearly, someone isn’t worried about getting ‘Me-tooed.’” 

The wolf’s face is impassive, but he turns it toward the stove, and Stiles sees that he hadn’t even noticed that it was his clothes that were hanging on a line strung over the top of it. He can see the bright red of his hoodie, next to that almost entirely useless raincoat. 

“Oh,” Stiles says, biting his lip sheepishly. “Thanks, I guess. Although, I would really like it if you would put some pants on because I literally cannot have a conversation with you unless you put some pants on. Not that we can even call this a conversation, because I’m the only one actually ta--”

He’s interrupted by a distinctly irritated sigh. So, Stiles thinks, glancing up and blushing again when he realizes Wolfman definitely isn’t deaf (or clothed, his brain screams) because he’s stalking across the room and picking up a pair of what looks like plaid pajama pants. Which is honestly so funny in the moment that Stiles can’t do anything but laugh. And laugh. And laugh. 

“Oh my god,” Stiles wheezes, covering his face. “I’m sorry, thank you, I just --”

Another growl, but if it’s supposed to be a warning, it doesn’t work. For some reason, Stiles kind of likes the noise, and it sort of just makes him want to laugh harder. 

The hand is back on his ankle, and god, the man’s skin is burning hot like he’s got a fever, and Stiles can’t help but wonder if that’s how he always feels. Like, is that just normal temperature for wolfmen? Does the rest of him feel like that?

The warm skin disappears, and Stiles actually has to stop himself from whining because he’s somehow...disappointed? It’s replaced by something kind of slimy, and Stiles jerks away reflexively. 

“What the hell is that?” Stiles asks, gazing down disdainfully at whatever greenish-brown gunk the wolf is currently spreading on his ankle which, admittedly, looks kind of swollen and gross at the moment. 

It doesn’t smell gross though. It smells like the herbal tea that Scott’s mom was always drinking. Lavender and chamomile. It must be some kind of poultice, Stiles thinks, eying the strip of cloth being clumsily wrapped around his foot. Wolfman doesn’t seem as steady and graceful at the moment -- his fingers (long fingers,  _ nice fingers) _ are shaking a little. Like he’s not used to using them.

And maybe he isn’t, Stiles thinks, watching him. “So are you like an alien?”

Wolfman scoffs but doesn’t answer, surprise, surprise.

“Am I getting anywhere? Hotter? Colder? Shapeshifter? Skinwalker?” Stiles rattles on, puzzled, yet undeterred, before adding with a smirk, “Animorph?” 

_ “Do you ever stop talking?” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Derek finally speaks. More with his POV next chapter c:


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god I lied. There's going to be like seven or eight chapters. I don't even know anymore. I've been suffering some writers block, so this chapter might not be great, but at least it's here!
> 
> And full of obscure pop culture references, sorry.

IV.

_ “Do you ever stop talking?”  _

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but honestly, he’d been sort of shell-shocked just listening to the boy. It’s been so long since he’s heard anyone talk at all, period, let alone that much. Derek didn’t even know it was possible for a person to say so many words with so few breaths and not immediately pass out. 

“Almost never,” the boy retorts easily. The laughter is a bit of a shock, too. Derek can’t remember the last time he heard that sound. 

_ Well, you never talk, the wolf says almost gleefully, so perhaps it’ll work better this way.  _

Shut up, Derek thinks viciously. 

“Well, okay, rude,” the boy says, though he’s still grinning, laughing.

“No,” Derek says, sighs through a frustrated growl, “Not you.” 

“Dude, that’s not exactly all that reassuring.” 

_ Nice going. You said that out loud. Now he’s going to think we’re a lunatic.  _

He just saw me turn into a human being from an actual wolf, and you think it’s talking to myself that’s going to make him think we’re crazy? Derek thinks skeptically. “Haven’t talked much.” The sound of his own voice in his ears is grating. Too rough, and his throat burns with the effort when he speaks next. “Been alone.”

The boy cocks his head. “For how long?” 

It’s a tricky question, mostly because after a while, Derek had sort of stopped counting. At least the way humans did. The boy is watching him, waiting for an answer, and the attention makes Derek shift nervously, his fingers clenched into his palms. “What year is it?” he croaks. 

“Uh, it’s 2013,” the boy says, “do you really not know that?”

What does he expect, Derek thinks sarcastically, that we were pulling pages off our  _ werewolf words of the day  _ calendar? 

_ Be nice or he won’t like us. We want him to like us, remember? _

Hmmph, Derek grouses, but knows this is true, albeit begrudgingly in his case.

_ For now. _

For christsake, shut up! If you keep distracting me, he’s going to think we’re mentally disabled in addition to just plain crazy. “Eight years. Almost,” Derek finally says hoarsely. “You’re the second person I’ve seen.”

The boy makes a noise of disbelief, and suddenly he’s talking again, a mile a minute, so many words coming out at once that Derek nearly can’t follow them. “Holy shit, dude. You’ve been living in this place for eight years? Alone? Are you a wolf all the time, or can you change any time you want? Is this your house? What’s your name?” 

He’s so earnest with his questions that he’s half-scrambling to his feet in excitement, or at least attempting to, and Derek growls again in warning, flashing his eyes pointedly at the boy’s ankle. “Stop moving.”

“Wow,” the boy breathes, “somehow you managed not to answer a single one of those. I’m actually impressed.” 

Still, he’s not able to hide his wince of pain, Derek notes, so, with another put-upon sigh, the wolf winds his hands back around the boy’s foot and closes his eyes, concentrating. 

“Hey - hey, you better not be doing the whammy on me again, wolfman, or I swear I’ll --”

_ That was cheating, the wolf whispers as they both watch the boy slip into that twilight sleep again.  _

I’m good with that, Derek thinks disdainfully. Besides, it wouldn’t affect him so much if he didn’t need the rest.

_ You’re just trying to rationalize wolf-roofie-ing him again. He’s going to be angry with us when he wakes.  _

Look at him. He’s skin and bones. Too pale. He clearly doesn’t take care of himself. Not well, anyway.

_ We just need to fatten him up a little. We’ll hunt while he sleeps. He can’t be mad at us with a full belly. _

Derek doesn’t think this is true, but he’s already resigned himself to the fact that he’s going to do it anyway. Because for some reason, it’s like he can’t not.

I blame you for this. All of this.

_ We'll see. _

...

When Stiles wakes up next, he doesn’t open his eyes right away. Because he’s still pissed at the wolfman for using that weird knockout mojo on him again, and even more so, because he’s not  _ actually _ that upset about it. Because he feels weirdly...good? More well-rested and comfortable than he has in months, which is ridiculous, or it should be, because he’s basically in a shack in the middle of nowhere with a (possibly) crazy-wolf-mountain-man. A really, ridiculously sexy, handsome, (possibly) crazy-wolf-mountain-man.

It was all very, very confusing. 

Eventually, Stiles  _ has  _ to move, at the very least to stretch his sleep-stiffened limbs, because he’s pretty sure they’ve gone numb. His ankle gives him a sharp and painful twinge of protest when he moves, but he can’t sit in this bed a minute longer or he’s going to go crazy. Also, he really has to take a piss. 

It’s still dark outside, and when he peeks out the window, the snow is even higher than he’d remembered. He doesn’t imagine he’s going to get out of here anytime soon. Not tonight, anyway. Walking is out, so Stiles is forced to half-crawl, half-hop his way across the room. The fire is still going in the stove, so with the glow from the dying embers and the small string of lights hanging above his head, he can see well enough. At least well enough not to crash into anything. 

On purpose, anyway. 

Stiles is alone, as far as he can tell, although that doesn’t count for much when he knows now just how quickly and silently wolfman can move. There’s a not-small part of him that feels slightly bereft by this fact, the emptiness, which isn’t something he’s willing to examine at the moment. Because Stiles is hungry and he really needs to pee, so when that’s all sorted, he supposes he can get down to the brass tacks of what the fuck was exactly going on here.

The tiny room off the kitchen turns out to be a little bathroom, so at least the latter is easy enough to take care of. Once that’s done, he’s not really sure what else to do. It feels like snooping, but Stiles supposes he can’t really be blamed for that. What else is he supposed to do all alone and stuck in this cabin, if not that? 

The place looks well-lived in, and surprisingly clean for being literally in the middle of nowhere, save for a thin layer of dust on the shelves. Stiles is more surprised to see how full of books they are, and not just the typical outdoor survival guides or battered copies of  _ The Anarchist’s Cookbook _ , which is what Stiles might have expected to find in a place like this. There’s no obvious system or method to how they’re organized, either. Hemingway beside Austen,  _ Naked Lunch _ next to  _ A Brief History of Time.  _ It’s hard to imagine wolfman reading romance novels (Stiles can’t say he doesn’t laugh outright at the thought), but there are even some Nora Roberts novels of the airport variety tucked into the corner of one shelf like an afterthought. 

Stiles fingers twitch as he runs them greedily over the spines, thinking how easy and nice it would be to just grab one and sit in front of the flickering fire and lose himself in the pages for a while. It’s exactly what he’d be doing right now if he was at home, though he guesses the whole remote-cabin-in-the-snowy-wilderness aspect made it sort of new and exotic. Add in the half-feral wolfman, and it was practically a fantasy vacation. 

Stiles laughs sort of woozily to himself, because none of that made sense, not even to his ADHD brain, and if he doesn’t eat soon, he may actually pass out for real all on his own this time. No wolfman required. 

Stiles makes his way carefully over to the kitchen area, but he’s not optimistic. There’s the typical bomb-shelter staples -- a lot of canned meats (no thanks) and packets of what he thinks are actual MRE meals (also a pass). There’s some rice though, and oatmeal, a collection of various canned soups. If he can find a pot, he’s in business. 

One small mercy of being alone was the fact that no one was around to see how pathetic he looked trying to find what he needed. There’s more hopping, and possibly some grunting, as he rifles through the cabinets, the whole time trying desperately not to think about the box of blueberry pop-tarts he had stashed in his duffle bag (the bag he’d so unfortunately left in the backseat of his useless, useless car).

Stiles has just found a relatively rust-free saucepan in the back of a cupboard when the door opens with a bang that, frankly, scares the living shit out of him. He yelps in surprise, the pot clattering to the floor as he flops backward with a truly embarrassing flail before he falls.

Or, he would have, if someone hadn’t caught him. That someone, Stiles realizes with a hissing exhale, was the wolfman, whose hands (big hands, Stiles realizes weakly) were locked around his narrow hips and lifting him gently to his feet.

“Told you not to move,” the wolfman says gruffly.

Stiles is close enough he swears he feels the rumble in his own chest. “I don’t have to listen to you,” he says, hoping the defiance distracts enough from how shaky his voice sounds. 

“So I should let you fall then?” 

The wolf lets him go for a split second, and Stiles flails again, but apparently it’s merely a feint. Those ridiculously large hands find his hips again and put him back upright. Which, so rude, Stiles thinks, and opens his mouth to say so, but is momentarily distracted by the wolfman's annoyingly handsome face.

His annoyingly handsome face  _ covered in blood. _

“Oh my god,” Stiles squeaks, “whose blood is that?”

Wolfman cocks his head, confused, before reaching behind him and lifting up what turns out to be  _ a literal dead rabbit _ by the ears.

…

  
  


“Is that -- um -- are you planning on eating that?” the boy says, eyes wide and mouth twisted in a noticeable cringe.

Derek shakes his head. “It’s for you.”

“Oh, uh, well -- thank you?” 

_ He doesn’t look happy. We found food for him. Why doesn’t he look happy with us? _

Humans don’t eat raw meat. I told you this, Derek thinks huffily. “Calm down. I’ll cook it. I’m not an idiot,” he grumbles. “Sit.” 

The boy snorts. “Wow. Touchy.” 

The boy does obey, which shouldn’t please Derek as much as it does, but he’s not willing to examine it too much at the moment. And it feels strange,  _ cooking,  _ but when he hears the boy’s stomach growling, he shoves the feeling aside. Instead, he focuses on skinning and dressing the rabbit (which mercifully doesn’t take long with his claws), ignoring the boy’s noises of distaste. There’s not much in the way of anything fresh for an actual stew, but there are cans of vegetable soup that sort of serve the same purpose. 

“Okay,” the boy says once Derek slides a bowl in front of him, “this is much better than I expected, so, really, um -- thanks. Are you not going to eat, too?” he adds, nodding at the obviously empty place in front of Derek, who’d situated himself in the most optimal place to watch the boy eat. 

Derek’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “Ate while I was hunting for you. There were originally two rabbits.” 

The boy chokes a little, his spoon clattering against the bowl, presumably realizing exactly what Derek means by that. “So, are you ever going to tell me your name? I’ve been calling you ‘wolfman’ in my head, but we’re not in a George Waggner movie, and I’m no Claude Rains, so --”

_ What the hell is he talking about?  _

I have no idea, Derek thinks. “Tell me  _ your  _ name.”

“You do realize this is not at all how a conversation goes, right? When someone asks you a question, you’re supposed to answer it. Not ask them the same question whilst simultaneously avoiding answering what they asked you in the first place,” the boy says, smirking around another mouthful of stew. “But if you must know, it’s Stiles.” 

_ What the hell is a Stiles? _

Oh my god, shut up, Derek growls.

_ Ask him! We want to know. _

No. God, can you ever just be quiet?

“Derek,” he finally spits out after far too long a silence. “My name is Derek.”

The boy,  _ Stiles,  _ has finished his first bowl, and Derek doesn’t even wait to refill it, disappearing in a blur of movement. “Whoa, thanks, but I’m not that hun--”

“Eat,” Derek insists. 

“So,” Stiles starts, “have you really been out here for like, a decade? All by yourself?”

“Yes,” Derek nods. 

“Well,” Stiles says thoughtfully, “you’re a regular Euell Gibbons, aren’t you?”

“Many parts of the pine tree  _ are  _ edible,” Derek answers solemnly. 

Stiles grins, and Derek’s stomach squirms at the sight (this boy really has no business looking as pretty as he does, especially when he smiles). “And this is your cabin? I have to say, the Nora Roberts were a surprise. Although, it’s been a while since I met anyone who could understand a good Euell Gibbons reference. So, kudos.” 

“This place isn’t mine. There was an old woman who lived here. She died a few weeks ago.”

Stiles swallows with an audible gulp. “ _ She died?  _ Because -- “

_ He thinks we ate her, the wolf whispers, chuckling.  _

“I didn’t eat her, Stiles,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “She was old. She just died.”

“Like,” the boy goes on, idly swirling the soup with his spoon, “ _ inside  _ the house?”

“No,” Derek answers seriously, “on the porch.” 

“So, you really just lived out here all by yourself? As a wolf?” Stiles shakes his head, laughing again in disbelief, “For a whole decade? You took that whole, ‘Hell is other people thing,’ really seriously, didn’t you?” 

“I don’t hate people,” Derek answers, “I just feel better when they aren’t around.”

“You’ve read Bukowski?” Stiles asks. And Derek really is trying his hardest not to be offended by how shocked the boy sounds by this realization. 

“I’m a werewolf, Stiles,” Derek grumbles, “not illiterate.” 

“Ah, werewolf,” Stiles says, nodding sagely. “I was close.”

“You said animorph,” Derek says skeptically. 

“Yeah,  _ as a joke,” _ Stiles says. “Werewolf was totally going to be my next guess.” 

“Yeah, sure.”

_ “It was!” _

“Eat your soup.”

Stiles arches an eyebrow, but surprisingly doesn’t argue, and Derek (and his wolf) fight the urge to purr in approval.


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, another chapter! I'm not used to writing a slow burn, but apparently, this is me trying. I know, you guys. I'm as shocked as you are.
> 
> A little short because I'm still shaking off the block, but it's getting better, I think! (Unless this sucks, then whooooopsy daaaaisies). 
> 
> Thanks for reading. c:

The soup isn’t the worst thing he’s ever eaten, Stiles thinks, pushing the now-empty bowl away from him in a way he really hopes is forceful enough for Derek to get that hint that he’s done. Because he’s pretty sure if he eats any more he might actually explode. 

“Are you sure you’re full?” Derek asks suspiciously. 

“Ugh, god, no more soup,” Stiles whines letting his forehead thump dramatically on the table, “I’m going to _become_ soup if I eat any more.” It was slightly unsettling, Stiles thinks, to have his needs attended to so thoroughly, to be _watched_ so thoroughly. Like there was nothing Derek wanted to do more than sit here and watch Stiles eat. 

Not in like a kinky way (he doesn't _think),_ but like, like -- a _satisfied_ way. Like there was nothing Derek wasn’t currently more proud of than feeding Stiles dinner. It was weird as hell, but also somehow strangely flattering? That seemed to be Derek’s effect on him in general.

“Thank you by the way,” Stiles says softly, raising his head just enough to look up at Derek, who's still looking at him with an almost disarmingly earnest expression. 

“For what?” Derek asks. And Stiles might think he’s being mocked, but the guy looks so sincere it’s actually kind of sweet. 

“For the soup, obviously,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes and muffling a snort into his arm. “You know what I mean, though.” Sighing, he sits upright and crosses his arms. “For not letting me get hypothermia. Although,” he adds, smirking, “I will say you made me fall off the side of a mountain and twist my ankle so, maybe I shouldn’t be thanking you at all. I think you kind of owe me, actually, dude.”

Derek blinks. “You fainted. I had to carry you.”

“Yeah, because you were a wolf and then decided to spontaneously turn into a giant naked guy! I feel like I was deservedly rattled, okay?” Stiles sputters. “And also, shut up because I’m trying to thank you for helping me even though I probably would have been fine since I was heading toward town anyway.”

“You were going in the wrong direction,” Derek says, matter-of-fact.

“No I wasn’t!”

“Yes,” Derek repeats, “you were. Why were you out there anyway? Humans are pretty fragile, or so I’ve heard. Fairly easy for them to freeze to death, I’d imagine.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. The wolf may have started out all growly and taciturn, but it appears he might actually have a sense of humor, albeit a dry one. It was unexpected. “I retract my thank you,” he says, pouting. Derek arches an eyebrow and Stiles sticks out his tongue. Huffing, he shifts in his seat, wishing his clothes weren’t still soaked, because the wool blanket is still wrapped around his shoulders, and it definitely hasn’t gotten any less itchy or uncomfortable. The cabin’s previous occupant seemed to have a wardrobe exclusively full of the unisex-military-supply-store variety, which would have been fine, but Stiles was too weirded out currently to throw on clothes belonging to a recently dead woman. 

Werewolf or no werewolf, Stiles has been close enough to death lately, thank you. 

“You can’t take back a thank you,” Derek says. “That’s like the opposite of how thank yous work.”

“Oh, was that in your copy of _Human Manners for Dummies?_ ” Stiles asks haughtily. 

“No,” Derek says seriously, belied only by a mischievous glint in his emerald eyes. “Was it in yours?”

“I’m so very glad that you’ve obviously taken to this whole speaking thing just fine," Stiles retorts.

Derek shakes his head and laughs, and the sound is so _pretty,_ that all Stiles can think about is how to make him do it again. 

  
  


“So, you’ve barely answered any of my questions,” Stiles says, staring at the wolf. He’d attempted to limp his way back to the bed, but after nearly wiping out and falling flat on his face again, Stiles had begrudgingly allowed Derek to help keep him at least semi-upright. 

“That’s true,” Derek says, “but that’s because you ask too many of them.”

“You think any question is too many,” Stiles says flatly. 

Derek shrugs. Stiles has noticed that unlike before, the wolf is no longer right next to him on the bed, but a noticeable (and weirdly uncomfortable) distance away on the battered, lumpy sofa. Stiles isn’t sure why it bothers him so much, that distance, but it does (but he’s not pouting, no, not at all). 

“Play a game with me,” Stiles blurts, since it’s not like they have anything else to do. It’s not like the snow was stopping any time soon, and it’s the middle of the night according to his near-dead phone. 

Derek snorts, his expression stony. “I’m not doing that.”

Stiles ignores this. “Great! We’re going to play a game called truth. We’ll just take turns asking each other questions.”

“This just sounds like a conversation with extra steps,” Derek says, suspicious (perhaps deservedly so).

“It might, maybe, be something like that,” Stiles says, his mouth curled into a soft smile. 

Derek sighs. “You’re still going to talk either way, right?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Stiles says.

Derek growls, which Stiles thinks should in no way be as weirdly hot as it is, but then again, this whole thing was weird.

So why fight it?

…

I don’t want to do this, Derek thinks. I don’t even like thinking about myself. Now I have to talk about myself? I didn’t do it for eight years for a reason.

_Big surprise, says the wolf. We want to learn about him, remember? This seems like the perfect way. That’s what humans do, right? Talk about stuff._

I’m not human, Derek huffs.

_Not technically, the wolf hums, but you look like one._

And then...nothing. Silence. Great, Derek thinks bitterly. Helpful.

“Dude, where do you go when you blip out like that? Taking a guided walking tour through your mind palace or something?”

Stiles’s words bring him hurtling back to awareness like being reeled in on a hook. It’s still jarring, hearing a voice that isn’t his own, or the rough scratch of wolf. “Is that one of your questions?” Derek asks, flushed with the sudden embarrassment of being caught again. 

Stiles nods.

“Been alone a long time. No one to talk to but myself,” Derek starts, shifting nervously on the couch, not used to feeling trapped, cornered, by the boy’s analyzing gaze. _“I’m not crazy.”_

Stiles laughs, and Derek nearly flinches, but he doesn’t think the boy means it in a cruel way. It’s somehow kind. Warm. “Dude, if talking to yourself means you’re crazy, then I would have gotten locked up years ago.”

_Told you._

Derek just stares at him for a long moment. “So why were you out there. Really? We’re literally in the middle of nowhere.”

“I was looking for a tree,” Stiles says.

_Are there no trees where he lives?_

“No trees in Beacon Hills?” Derek asks, arching an eyebrow teasingly (of course he’s teasing because he _knows_ the answer). “You couldn’t have looked out a window? I bet you could look outside right now and see at least a couple.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, smirking. “Funny. It’s a special tree, asshole. Supposed to be the biggest ponderosa pine or something, I don’t know -- I don’t really give a shit, personally, but it’s for my mom so I --”

At that, the boy trails off and ducks his chin into the arm resting on his knee. Derek doesn’t need to scent the air to note the shift, that gloomy weight of sadness he’s becoming achingly familiar with over the years. He doesn’t need to ask either, because Stiles speaks before he can even begin to form the question:

“My mom, she likes -- _liked --_ crap like that. You know, Biggest Ball of Twine, World’s Biggest Chest of Drawers...”

_Is this a human thing, the wolf asks curiously? If it is, it’s stupid._

He must have a strange look on his face because Stiles pauses and offers a somber smile. “It’s in North Carolina. Anyway, she’s dead -- er -- died,” Stiles murmurs, “like three months ago.”

Maybe not so stupid, Derek thinks.

_That’s what we’ve smelled on him, the wolf says._

Grief. The human thing would be to offer sympathy, say sorry, say _anything._ But Derek says nothing, can’t, because he knows better than anyone there’s nothing to say that would help. Nothing he would say that would matter.

Strangely enough, Derek’s silence doesn’t seem to bother the boy, because suddenly, Stiles is smiling, almost laughing.

_Is this what humans are like when they’re mad?_

No, Derek thinks. Maybe he’s just going crazy again. “Are you -- okay?”

“Yes, well no, I mean --” Stiles starts, just the barest curve of a smile visible. “I’ve just been so used to people saying sorry, giving me these looks. Like I’m going to freak out and go all _Cuckoo’s Nest_ right in front of them. You’re the first person who hasn’t pitied me in months.”

One mercy of running away that night, those looks were something Derek never had to experience firsthand. “Even if I said sorry, she’d still be dead, right?”

_Smooth, asshole. Real smooth._

What, Derek thinks indignantly, am I wrong?

Stiles giggles, covering his face with his hands “Thanks, dude. That’s kind of nice, in a super rude way,” he says, though from his voice, he doesn't sound mad. He sounds grateful.

“I guess I should read that book,” Derek says, feeling suddenly and uncharacteristically shy, “ _Human Manners for Dummies?”_

“Nah,” Stiles says, winking. “Humans are overrated.” 

Derek is thankful for the shadows from the flickering fire hiding what he knows without a doubt, is a _blush._

“Okay,” Stiles says, “My turn.”

“Fine,” Derek says, “but after this, you should rest.”

“I haven’t had a bedtime since I was ten, thanks,” Stiles retorts, rolling his eyes. “And stop trying to worm your way out of answering me.” 

Derek bares his teeth in what could probably pass as a grin but is really more of a grimace. 

Stiles's eyes widen, and he gulps visibly but goes on anyway, apparently unruffled enough to continue. “So, the whole werewolf thing. I thought you only transformed on the full moon. Do all werewolves turn into actual wolves? Were you like, bitten? Does it hurt, you know, when you shift?” The words come out rapid-fire, and Stiles only pauses to take a breath, before adding, "You don’t eat people, right?”

This time Derek is the one who’s stunned. “That -- that’s like six questions.”

Stiles shakes his head. “One question with five parts.”

_I don’t understand this game._

That’s because he’s cheating, Derek thinks, irritated. “That’s cheating.”

“Really?” Stiles flutters his lashes innocently, and Derek’s throat constricts. “I don’t remember a rulebook, Sourwolf.”

_Sourwolf? the wolf asks with marked interest._

Don’t ask me. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

Derek sighs. “I wasn’t bitten. I was born like this.”

Stiles shifts, his expression eager, like he’s hanging on Derek’s every word. It’s _unsettling,_ to say the least, being the focus of someone’s attention like this. “So does that mean the whole bite thing is a myth?”

“Six-part question?” Derek asks, brow furrowed. 

Stiles grins sheepishly. 

“It’s not a myth, but only alphas can give the bite, but the gene can be passed down to children. And we can shift whenever we want, but it’s harder to control on the full moon. The full-shift, what I can do -- it’s rare. Not everyone can do it, but my family -- my mother -- was sort of known for it.”

Derek has to hide his wince because it’s been so long since he’s allowed himself to even think about them, let alone say the words out loud -- family, mother.

Stiles expression shifts to one Derek can’t quite read (he’s out of practice reading faces, especially human ones). When he opens his mouth to ask yet another question, Derek has the sneaking suspicion it’s not the one he actually wants to ask. “So what, your family’s _special?_ The werewolf equivalent of the Cullens, or something?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Stiles throws his head back, cackling. “Dude, oh my god, you don’t know what _Twilight_ is, do you?”

Derek blinks dumbly at him. 

“Oh man, when you find out, you are going to be so pissed.” 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Derek says. 

Stiles is still snickering, but it’s broken by a noticeable yawn. 

Derek gives him a pointed stare. “Tired?”

“Is that your question?” Stiles asks loftily. 

“Go to sleep, Stiles.” Because humans needed that, didn’t they? Sleep? That’s the reason, Derek tells himself, that he’s suddenly crawling out of his skin, feels that instinctual need to run and hide. Because if Stiles is starting with these questions, eventually he’ll ask one Derek really, really doesn’t want to answer.

Isn’t sure he’s ready or ever will be ready to answer. 

“Fine,” Stiles sighs. “But the least you can do is slip me some more of that werewolf GHB. My foot hurts,” he whines. Maybe it should be irritating, but Derek is somehow only endeared by the boy’s pouting. 

Before the boy can even move, Derek is across the room and pulling the blanket aside just enough to bare the boy’s foot, still bruised, but looking much better than before. His fingers curl around Stiles’s bony ankle. It’s quiet, but Derek still hears the boy’s gasp anyway.

“Sorry,” Derek mumbles. 

“No, no,” Stiles says softly, “I just wasn’t expecting you to feel so --”

“Warm?” Derek asks, exhaling as he tightens his grip, his veins flexing and shimmering black. 

“Yeah.”

“It’s a wolf thing,” he murmurs, but Stiles doesn’t seem to hear him, his eyes already falling closed. 

_We could tell him everything, I bet._

If we wanted him to run away screaming, we could, Derek thinks bitterly. 

_Maybe, the wolf says. Maybe not._

**Author's Note:**

> Love me! Let me know what you think lol


End file.
